


She's so meta-- referenced and all

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which North and CT accidentally wind up dating Tex and everyone is terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They still think they're the gods of antiquity

   Tex sprays Connie’s jeans with mud three days before they actually meet, screeching the tires of her motorcycle outside the independent coffeeshop  
just off campus. Connie’s taking time she doesn’t have to drink an entire cup of espresso before she has to lecture bored under-grads on Russian Philosophy,  
so she really doesn’t have the time to run home and change.

    ”It’s a commentary on the crisis of the proletariat,” she tells Florida when he starts tisking as she passes him in the halls. He’s got an ink stain  
across the bridge of his nose that she was absolutely going to tell him about before he started judging.

    When she meets Tex officially, she’s at Tucker’s post-thesis-defense party, huddled in a corner with the twins and Wash and a bottle of vodka because  
grad students are fucking terrifying and she’s still in denial that her boyfriend is dating one.

    ”Is that the chick Dr. Church is obsessed with?” South asks. Connie drags her gaze from the art on the wall that is either an abstract worth hundreds  
of dollars or Tucker’s kid’s latest finger-painting.

    ”Who?”

    ”Blond, eleven o’clock. Don’t look.” Connie looks.

    ”Leather jacket?” North asks. “Specializing in American World War ii lit?”

    ”That’s her.”

    ”I make too much money to be at this party,” Wash says helplessly. He’d mixed up Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky again over lunch, so her patience for his  
engineer bullshit is running pretty thin.

    ”That’s how his wife died, right?” Connie asks. “Assuming we’re talking about the same Dr. Church.”

    ”There can be only one,” North says dryly. “Thank him for all the funding we’re not getting over here.”

    ”I’m also pretty sure his wife didn’t die in WW ii,” South adds.

    ”I mean, obviously, don’t be obtuse. She died in service though, or so I heard.”

    North huffs. “That’s what you get when you marry into the military industrial complex.”

    ”Drink more,” Connie advises him.

    ”I like Church,” Wash offers blithely. “He’s gotten us a lot of recognition and some of his ideas are revolutionary.”

    ”Wow, do you suck his cock, too?” South asks.

    ”It would explain all the sex we aren’t having,” Connie chirps.

    ”I’m going to go find Tucker,” Wash says.

    ”A good relationship doesn’t need sex to be emotionally gratifying and healthy,” North says, a little vindictively.

    ”My brother,” South announces, “for those of you playing along at home, is no longer sleeping with York and Carolina.”

    ”Is this going to be like last October?” Connie asks, a little alarmed. “I can’t go to any more poetry readings, North, I just can’t do it. There is  
not enough free wine in the world.”

    ”You are truly a philosopher, CT,” York says from directly behind her. North calmly starts drinking straight from the bottle.

    York tosses an arm around her shoulders, leaning heavily into her personal space. He smells like gin and too much cologne. “There is, indeed, not enough  
free wine in this world.”

    ”I thought you were still in Manchester,” she says, instead of punching him in the face.

    ”I got in this morning. Or, uh, last night. I have been awake for so many hours, Connie. And Wyoming got me drunk before he sent me to the airport.  
I’m gonna be honest with you, my life is a goddamned mess, but at least I’m getting published again. Hey, North.”

    ”York,” North says coolly. “Where’s Carolina?”

    ”Getting to know the woman she’ll probably be defending her father against in court.”

    ”I heard there was going to be a restraining order,” South says, perking up.

    ”Nah,” York says. “Nah, man, I think Carolina’s getting that… sorted out.”

    ”I’m incredibly uncomfortable with that implication,” Connie says. York sways dangerously and she tips him carefully against the wall. “I thought Carolina  
and Church weren’t speaking?”

    ”Family, man,” says York. “He won’t pay a damn dollar toward her student loans but he’s happy to guilt her into free legal advice.”

    The twins share a complicated look. North moves to hand the vodka to his sister but hesitates at the last minute, drawing it back against his chest  
like it’s an upset baby animal.

    Connie glances towards the kitchen where Wash had disappeared. She sees Carolina instead, heading towards them looking determined with a glass of wine  
in one hand and a disgruntled Texas clutched by the wrist in the other. “She drives a motorcycle,” Connie says. “I saw her the other day.”

    ”She seems nice,” North says. “I wonder if she’s read my paper on animation and gender roles in Post-Soviet Russia.”

    South takes the vodka away from him. “I haven’t even read that paper.”

    ”I have,” Connie offers. “I’ve also read your webcomic.”

    ”That’s because you have good taste,” north says seriously. “You are a lady of discerning tastes, Connecticut. In history and literature and people.  
Don’t you think she looks nice?”

    ”She covered me in mud.”

    ”Carolina,” York calls happily, straightening up slightly. “Carolina.”

    ”I bet she’d like attention from people who aren’t Church,” North continues.

    ”Don’t be creepy,” South says.

    Carolina arrives. Her jacket probably cost more than Connie’s car. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Texas.”

    North kisses her hand. Connie focuses very hard on not rolling her eyes. York slides slowly down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor.

    ”Carolina,” he says. “Light of my life. I missed you so much while I was away. I missed the smell of your hair and your concerning dedication to the  
construct of the Panopticon even after I read you Deleuze by candlelight.”

    Carolina looks distinctly not drunk enough for what is happening in front of her. Texas looks ready to bolt. Which… would be a shame, because she’s  
got really muscular arms and really shiny hair and maybe Connie can forgive her for the mud on her jeans after all.

    ”So there’s a poetry reading happening at the wine bar downtown,” North says a little desperately.

    ”I’m going to ask you to marry me when I’m more sober,” York says. Carolina is probably going to bash him over the head with her wine glass.

    ”I love poetry,” says Connie flatly. And to Texas, “I’m Connecticut. He’s North. We promise never to require restraining orders.”

    She texts Wash, finishes the vodka while she waits for his ok’. North and Carolina get into a staring contest over York’s head. Texas focuses a little  
too intently on Carolina’s abandoned purse. South fleas out to the balcony to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. Connie goes back to staring at the art  
on the wall. She’s definitely leaning towards finger painting.


	2. Early autumn, not yet dead

Connie sits in the back of Tex’s three PM class on Wednesday. Tex notices her about half way through, and Connie makes sure to look very deeply engrossed  
in Anne Sexton. Tex keeps her kids right until the clock strikes 3:50, and Connie fights against the rush of escaping teenagers to make her way up to the  
lectern where Tex is packing away her books.

“What did you do wrong to get stuck with Introductory courses?”

Tex shrugs. “I’m new. And it was either this or Kitty Litter and I figured maybe killing Education students my first term wouldn’t look great.”

Connie, who had definitely not accidentally set the coffeemaker on fire and also got the Dean of History publicly removed for academic fraud during her  
first term teaching, nods wisely. Tex’s bag is battered black leather with fucking silver studs around the seams. It matches her leather jacket and her  
leather boots and her leather gloves and Connie has such terrible fucking taste, this is almost as bad as Wash’s favourite calculator covered in cat stickers.

Connie follows Tex back to her office and uses her computer to check her email while Tex writes a three page angry letter to her officemate about feeding  
the pigeons roosting above the window.

Tex says, “I’m heading out. You want to come with?”

And Connie looks at the singular motorcycle helmet and the foreboding clouds lurking outside and decides that she values living more than she values sex.  
When she tells North this over her sixth cup of terrible campus coffee shop sludge he reaches across the table to pat her head. And today I think we learned  
a little bit about not giving in to peer pressure.“

"Carolina fucked your sister,” she says. North let’s out a soft moan closely reminiscent of the alien probe from the fourth Star Trek movie. Florida looks  
up from grading papers on the other side of the office.

“Come on now, I’m sure your parents taught you how to share.”

“Why would you tell me that?”

“I just want you to know that your taste is improving. I have never slept with your sister.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Florida says cheerfully.

“Please stop,” says North. Connie and Florida do not stop.

*

They take Tex to the fucking wine bar three times the week after Tucker’s defense party. North gets spectacularly drunk every time, and the second night  
Tex gets distracted by the poetry reading and Connie falls asleep in the booth.

“I’ve been retelling popular Russian folk tales as modern-day commentaries on the socioeconomic failings of the country,” North explains, their third night.  
Connie wonders if these are dates. Probably not.

“I think I stole five hundred bucks from that guy in Vegas last year,” Tex says thoughtfully, staring over North’s head at the black-and-orange haired  
hipster hunched over the microphone. He appears to be combining shitty knife tricks with his poetry recital. Connie’s pretty sure he’s one of South’s grad  
students.

“I can’t afford as much wine as I need right now,” she says. North kindly slides Tex’s half-full glass across the table to her. Connie doesn’t know why  
anyone would ever date them. She drinks the wine. The kid on stage is wearing more makeup than Connie’s worn in the last three years combined, and she’s  
pretty sure he’s drunkenly slipped into Korean by accident because the poetry he’s reading seems more incomprehensible than normal.

“I’ve been retweeted by Chomsky,” North says, smiling wistfully. Connie kicks him as hard as she can under the table.

“It was two years ago, no one cares.”

“Tex might.”

“I don’t,” Tex offers helpfully. Connie reaches over under the tablecloth and sets her hand deliberately high on the other woman’s thigh.

*

“I think Wash is going to leave me for a poli-sci grad with a kid,” Connie says once North’s emerged from under the sheets. He wipes his mouth on the back  
of his hand.

“Don’t be pessimistic. Everybody goes through rough patches.”

Connie politely doesn’t mention York and Carolina’s matching engagement rings. Tex flops over on top of Connie, digging teeth absently into the thin skin  
of her ribcage. Connie shutters. North snatches the phone out of her hand and tosses it into the pile of discarded clothes at the bottom of the bed.

“Don’t text in bed, Connecticut. It’s rude.”

“He won’t get the fucking organic milk if I don’t remind him,” she mutters. “Did you know three weeks ago he came home with *fish sticks*?”

North makes a face. Tex doesn’t even look up, but she still manages to land her knee right in his stomach with enough force to have him curled over and  
gasping. Connie pets her hair.

“You’re all so fucking obnoxious,” Tex mutters. “It’s gross.”

“Wow, would you prefer we have a few more letters after our names and a southern accent?” Connie retorts.

“Can we not, please,” North objects.

“I mean, while we’re on the subject,” Connie continues blithely, “Have you ever slept with South?”

North swears creatively in Russian. Connie laughs so hard she dislodges Tex’s head from her stomach.

Tex looks up, frowns innocently. Connie didn’t miss the way she’d gone stiff and prickly at the mention of Dr. Church. “Is that… a pre-rec?” she asks.  
“Shit, did I need permission of the Instructor to jump right into fucking you? Nobody told me there was a specific order.”

North punches her in the upper arm and tackles her off the bed. Connie stretches out off the end of the mattress until she can pick up her phone between  
her feet. Wash still hasn’t texted back. She sends him another message.

‘May be at risk of falling in like with assholes. Please advise from your previous experience’

Tex has North pinned to the carpet in a headlock. North appears to be threatening her with a  permanent marker. Wash texts back 'You mean my experience  
with you?’

Connie drags a displaced pillow under her head and curls up. 'Yeah.’

North finally escapes and clambers back onto the bed, wrapping himself around Connie and peering over her shoulder at the screen of her phone. She’s been  
texting with York about the 'girls in science and technology’ fundraiser all week, and she tries to shift the phone so he can’t see York’s’ name in her  
recents.

Tex vanishes into the bathroom for a minute and comes back with damp cloths which she throws at them before she stretches out behind north. Connie makes  
sad noises until she crawls over them both and settles down so Connie’s in the middle.

*

“Now isn’t this nicer than the wine bar?” North asks, spreading the blanket out on the grass.

Connie kindly doesn’t mention that the wine bar is always his idea. She’s at a point where she’s had to stop buying coffee in order to afford their continued  
patronage of the place, and there’s only so much angry queer poetry she can take from South’s grad student and his Halloween hair. North’s brought a blanket  
and a picnic basket. Tex has brought a bottle of whisky. Connie’s brought the modernist ennui and a coffee table book about cats. Whatever, nobody expects  
the picnic inquisition, North.

“I walked over to the Italian market to get that olive bread you like,” North tells Connie. Tex kicks her boots off onto the dead grass and uncaps the  
bottle. Overhead the weak autumn sunlight casts skeletal tree branches in a tired gold-brown. Connie smiles at North and tears off a piece of the bread.  
She holds it out to Tex.

“Try this. Unless you hate olives, in which case we should probably have a long talk about this relationship.”

Tex takes the bread out of her fingers with her teeth. North coughs on a sip of whisky. Connie thinks maybe grading midterms has destroyed any brain-to-mouth  
filter she’s been holding on to.

“So!” says North. “Relationship, huh?” He’s smiling.

Tex and Connie share a vaguely panicked look. “This is a really nice blanket,” Tex says, overly-enthusiastic.

North takes another sip of whisky. “Thanks! I crocheted it myself.”

Connie takes the bottle away from him and drinks about a quarter of it. Tex gets up and punches a tree. It looks like it hurt a fucking lot. Connie grabs  
her phone and texts Wash 'I think shit just got serious with North and Tex. I love you.“

Wash texts back a red heart and then a picture of an unfamiliar kitten sitting on their kitchen counter beside a carton of organic milk.

North says, "I can teach you guys how, if you want to make your own.”


	3. When they say "real people"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem is that, when they say ‘real people,’ what they mean is people who aren’t burdened with ironic senses of humor, college educations that help  
> them put up an analytical barrier between themselves and the actual world, and the pressure of living with the reality that they all grew up middle class,  
> chose a broke-ass bohemian life, and now have to deal with the fact that they can’t afford the comforts they grew up used to.  
> –Imogen Binnie, Nevada

CT gets the call from North when Wash is like, probably five or six thrusts away from a likely unsatisfactory orgasm. The phone vibrates somewhere in the pile of blankets to her left. She's forgotten that she'd assigned the Tetris theme song as his ringtone.

She answers, because she's kind of a shitty person. Wash says something bitter about communism and rolls off her, shoving his fingers under the harness to finish himself off. CT drags her underwear up from the bottom of the bed with her foot so she can wipe herself clean(ish) with the hand that isn't holding the phone.

"Hey, Connie," North says. "Listen, I know it's late, but I need you to come pick me up."

"It's three in the morning," she says. "Call a fucking taxi, what the shit?"

North sighs right into the receiver. "I left my card at home to prevent a seemingly inevitable plunge into alcoholism fuelled bankruptcy."

"And then you spent your cash on weed, apparently."

"Also a copy of Billy Bishop Goes to War."

"North, sweetie, you're already sleeping with Tex. You can stop trying to impress her."

"When I have to defend my impending psychotic break to a jury of my peers, I'm citing this moment right here," Wash says flatly.

"Please remind me which one of us has a tramp stamp of the blueprints for their senior undergrad project."

Wash gets up. "Tucker thinks it's sexy."

CT riggles backwards until she's hanging off the edge of the bed, trying to reach the skirt she'd kicked off five hours ago. "What a ringing endorsement. North, text me your location."

"What?"

She pulls the skirt on, doesn't bother with underwear. Wash's hoodie is on the back of the desk chair, and she doesn't realize until she's yanked it over her head and is half way out the door that it's the one that Tucker and his kid glued cat ears to.

"Just-- open your maps app. If you tap on your current location-- do you see where it shows you your location, North?"

"I can't pull up the maps, I don't have wi-fi access. Wireless fidelity."

"And... You don't have data. Because you live in the stone age."

"I live in the face-to-face age of real social interactions. I also live between a drug dealer and a family of squirrels. So no, CT, I do not have $30 worth of data a month."

CT kicks the side of her car until the door falls open. "Ok, OK, look, I can probably track your phone, what's your iCloud password?"

"I don't know. York set that up for me."

"And you haven't changed it? This is how-to-break-up 101, come the fuck on."

"There's a street sign," North says. "will that help?"

*

"York and Carolina are sleeping with someone," North says as soon as he's buckled his seatbelt. He smells like weed and cigarettes and she's pretty sure he's wearing Tex's t-shirt-- there's a wide strip of snow white skin between the hem and the top of his 'I was a twink once nostalgia' skinny jeans. There are also red flames screen printed onto the sleeves. So.

"As are you," she says. "Two of us, in fact."

"Yes, but this is of particular import because they are fucking hypocrites who have no compunctions about flaunting their shameless hypocrisy where anyone can see."

"You are literally the only person who cares."

"A postdoc in humanities computing with a focus on developing an interactive program that can collect and interpret a searchable database of philosophical theory and literature and then respond to user queries by extrapolating from the writings of whichever theorist the user selects to give answers that are what it thinks that theorist would have to say. So I'm sure York hopped on his dick after 'hello'."

"I feel," CT says thoughtfully. "That either computers are a lot smarter than I think they are, or there's even more wasted funding than I thought. Let me guess, he's part of the Leonard Church mafia."

North waves a hand dismissively. "Not officially. Though I'm sure Carolina would enjoy being able to send him off to meetings with her father with bruises still around his wrists."

"That family's so fucked up. Tex was telling me Carolina flat out propositioned her in front of him at the Faculty Club."

"Did she say yes?"

"I fucking hope not. It's bad enough one of us is tainted by association."

North puffs up like an indignant chicken, but CT takes the turn into the Denny's parking lot and he gets distracted by the flickering neon. "They said they wanted monogamy," he says listlessly. CT pulls into a parking stall. When she turns off the car the motor makes a sad little grinding noise and something klinks faintly beneath them.

"I guess it didn't work out for them."

"They said they had to think of Carolina's career, of the blackmail potential. Her public image. Never mind that York spends half the year running around Northern England with Reggie embarrassing himself at conferences and the other half casually destroying the basic political structure of the English department from the inside."

"Maybe they're trying to meet their diversity quota. You have to admit, you three are really fucking white."

He turns to face her in his seat. She's pretty sure he's trying to glare but his eyes aren't tracking. "You knew."

"I follow York on Instagram because I hate myself. Yeah, I knew."

He slumps in his seat. "Now you definitely have to buy me pity waffles."

She shoves her hands into the pocket of the hoodie and pulls out a twenty. "Wash is buying us both pity waffles. I need like, a small mountain of carbs if I'm going to have to listen to this all morning. A foothill. And then I'm dropping you off with Texas or your sister and going to spend like four hours with Florida and our grad students, and then I will probably take like three sleeping pills and hide under my desk until Christmas."

"I'll bring you a snowman," he says, earnestly.


End file.
